


you put the spike in my heart

by brophigenia



Series: the one with the vampires [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood Drinking, Frottage, M/M, Religious Guilt, Shower Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Vampire!Prokopenko, Vampires, aka ronan lynch, all vampires all the time, also could be background ronan lynch/adam parrish, background ronan lynch/probably gansey, but also like anne rice and vampire diaries and buffy, did you guys ever see the show moonlight?, doppelganger!k, fuckin it up, i have the type a flu, it's like that, kavinsky and ronan are both human, so really we can blame this on that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 12:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: Proko groaned, and let go of his tenuous-at-best hold on reality, drifting so far off that he was adrift in the middle of the sea, remembering his first passage to America, remembering the sickening rock of the waves and the knowledge that surely he’d die there, nailed into a box so far belowdecks that he couldn’t even hear the roar of the captain to his crew. He’d lived through that. He’d lived so long, outlived so much, and now here he would die in a shitty bathroom at a boys’ boarding school in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, Virginia.(AKA, Proko is a centuries-old vampire, K is the doppelgänger of his long-dead maker, and Ronan Lynch has had it up toherewith all this bullshit. With sexy results.)





	you put the spike in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> What I listened to while writing this fic: 
> 
> Vampires Will Never Hurt You by MCR  
> Bite by The Shanghai Vampire  
> Helena by MCR  
> Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have by Panic!  
> Vampires Will Never Hurt You by MCR  
> Vampires Will Never Hurt You by MCR  
> Thnks Fr Th Mmrs by FOB  
> Vampires Will Never Hurt You by MCR
> 
> You get it? It's THAT kind of fic.

“Just leave,” Proko said, delirious, groaning and white-eyed in the empty bathtub. His fangs had descended an hour ago and refused to tuck themselves back away into his gums. He felt like a newly-turned fledgling, instead of a creature who’d seen regimes rise and fall, revolutions burn themselves out, new countries form from the ashes of old dictatorships. “Just go away,  _ fuck!” _

K, who was not in the practice of following orders from  _ anyone  _ about  _ anything,  _ only snorted and reached over to crank on the showerhead, setting it to douse Proko with ice-cold water. Proko shouted in a mixture of bone-deep relief and mind-deep frustration, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cramped dorm bathroom. “Would you shut the fuck up? My neighbors are fuckin’ narcs. Goddamn  _ student chaplains.”  _ K snapped. He leaned down to press his hand to Proko’s forehead. 

The veins in his wrist were very blue. Proko could practically  _ see  _ the flutter of his pulse. He bet K’s blood would taste like fuckin’ candy. Like the pretty lights at a warehouse rave, except on his  _ tongue,  _ hot and thick and  _ ready. _ He smacked K’s hand away violently, turning sluggishly onto his side so he faced the tile wall and not K, standing like a tall glass of water Proko wanted to smash and lick off of the fucking floor. 

K swore at him and slammed the bathroom door on his way out. Proko lay beneath the shower spray and drifted, aching, feeling like a dried up corn husk that had been stuck in a microwave and then set on fire. The water didn’t help. He felt like he had a fever; he felt like he was burning up from the inside out. 

He could hear K on the phone, barking some shit to someone about the blood bank and  _ I don’t fuckin care about felonies, you fuckin social reject  _ before making a frustrated noise and (presumably) throwing his phone at the wall with a clatter. 

“Fuck,” K said, aloud. “Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Fuckin  _ think.”  _

Proko groaned, and let go of his tenuous-at-best hold on reality, drifting so far off that he was adrift in the middle of the sea, remembering his first passage to America, remembering the sickening rock of the waves and the knowledge that surely he’d die there, nailed into a box so far belowdecks that he couldn’t even hear the roar of the captain to his crew. He’d lived through that. He’d lived so long, outlived so much, and now here he would die in a shitty bathroom at a boys’ boarding school in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, Virginia. 

And for what? Devotion to a  _ boy.  _ A boy who looked just like one he’d once known— a boy who looked just like his  _ maker,  _ the one who had gotten him into all this mess in the first place, who had taken him off the streets and turned him from a half-rabid urchin  _ orphan  _ to  _ this.  _ Whatever  _ this  _ was. Hell-beast, demon,  _ vampire.  _

He had lived so long without Yakov that when he’d seen K he’d first not even realized what he was seeing; shamefully, it had taken a moment to realize that his gaze had not been inexorably drawn by the width of K’s shoulders or the flush in his cheeks as he’d laughed, but by the uncanny resemblance. 

No— not  _ resemblance.  _ K did not  _ resemble  _ Yakov. He was no viceroy to Yakov’s monarch. K  _ was  _ Yakov, made young and new and  _ human  _ again. Made softer, less fierce, less furious. If K was sharp, Yakov had been  _ sharper.  _ If K was cruel, Yakov had been  _ crueler.  _ If K broke Proko’s heart, well, Yakov had torn it gleefully to shreds and then trodden upon the pieces. 

But,  _ oh.  _ Proko had adored him. Had loved every strand of his hair, every inch of his skin, every beating, every abandonment. He had  _ adored  _ Yakov, had followed him to the ends of the earth. Would have followed him beyond that, even, if there had not been work to do. If there had not been the promise of a sleeping king to wake, one with power over life and death. 

He had spent centuries chasing Glendower, King of Wales. Slayer and childe of the original vampire. Grandsire to every new vampire of the modern age. The last of Dracula’s progeny. 

What luck, that he’d gone all this time chasing a myth to see Yakov again, and then arrived in Henrietta only to find  _ K.  _

What luck. What a curse. 

“—still don’t fucking know what you want  _ me  _ for—“

“—stupid Professor Mc _ Fuckface _ had them out for hours—“ 

“—fuck—“ 

_ “—in the sun—“  _

Proko’s head had lolled down to the side; it took a moment for his eyes to open, for him to realize that someone had taken hold of him and pulled him upright with both hands even as the shower was turned off. Two sets of hands, then, and he found himself staring into a furious, beautiful face. 

“Yasha,” he mumbled, and tried to smile. His dried-out gums and cumbersome fangs made it difficult; he expected Yasha to make fun of him, but he didn’t. His mouth twisted and his eyebrows furrowed and he turned his head to speak, but Proko didn’t understand. 

“—get on top of him—“ 

“—you better not—“ 

Yasha put himself into Proko’s lap. The closeness was good, even if it made him feel even hotter than he already did, impossibly. He tried to touch Yasha, to bring his hands up and cradle that ever-missed face in them, but found them pinned. Everything seemed fuzzy and not quite right. 

Yasha stroked a hand through Proko’s hair, a gentle touch that made him want to arch like a cat. As it was, he was too weak to even  _ move, _ much less  _ arch. _

“—you with me, babe?” Yasha tapped him on the cheek; Proko blinked, tried to focus. “C’mon, do it. Do it.” 

_Do_ _what?_ Proko wanted to shout, but then Yasha leaned in and the vein in his neck _pulsed_ and Proko had bitten down before he could even think about it, mouth not open wide enough. He pulled back, licked his lips, went back in with his jaw stretched wide, sinking into that hot throat, moaning in his chest at the taste of the blood that filled his mouth. 

Hands kept stroking through his hair; the blood was boiling warm but went down like ice water, endlessly refreshing after an eternity spent  _ burning,  _ so dried out that not even the cold water of the shower had helped. The hands kept him grounded— the ones that caressed him gently and the ones that he could now feel binding his wrists behind his back, firm as iron chains. 

He became aware of himself and his surroundings again in fits and starts— the sensation of his wet clothes clinging to his skin, the weight of the body perched in his lap, the sounds of hitching breaths and whispered counting,  _ two hundred and one, two hundred and two, two hundred and three,  _ steady as a metronome until at  _ three hundred  _ it stopped and there was suddenly a hand snagging beneath his chin, a thumb pressing on the hinge of his jaw in such an expert maneuver that his bite released without his permission and he was pulled back as easily as a newborn kitten might be. 

Proko blinked the blood haze from his eyes and found himself looking up at K, whose face had gone very pale except for two twin blotches of pink right on the points of his high cheekbones; blood dripped lazily from the two sets of bite marks on his long, finely-wrought neck. His pupils were blown, like he’d spent the night getting fucked up in a field on the edge of town. He played so fast and loose with his own mortality. It made Proko nauseous to think about for too long. 

“Joey.” He said blankly, blinking, slurred— drunker on K’s blood than he’d ever been on liquor, when he was still alive enough to feel its effects. He could remember the last time he’d been drunk— it had been his last night alive, and Yakov had poured drink after drink down his throat, touched him more gently than anyone ever had, settled him down by the fire and spoke gently in his ear without fear of getting filthy by proximity. He’d woken up a vampire with no memory as to how it had happened, only Yakov there to say  _ you wanted it. You begged me for it. You are  _ mine,  _ now and always.  _

“Hey, motherfucker.” K said, very quiet and hoarse. He touched the wound on his throat. His eyes went wide when he looked at his own blood on the tips of his aristocratic fingers, trembling finely all over. “Oh, fuck.” He whispered, and Proko became aware of how hard he was— how hard they  _ both  _ were, wet and pressed together in the cold little bathroom. 

And there was still the matter of the body  _ behind  _ him. 

“What—“ Proko began, and craned his neck to see Ronan  _ fucking  _ Lynch crouched there, hands on Proko and eyes on K, like he was some possessive pet gargoyle. 

“Lynch’s got  _ experience.”  _ K confided, and leaned forward to smear their lips together in a messy, drugging kind of kiss. “Had to make sure you weren’t gonna,  _ ya know.” _ It was said carelessly, but what K meant was  _ rip out my throat with your teeth in a fit of insatiable thirst.  _ Proko shook, imagining it, and couldn’t help himself but to pull himself from Lynch’s grip so he could face him fully, K coming along for the ride until he was sprawled between the two of them. 

For his part, K didn’t seem to mind that he was now laid all over Lynch— he was all open thighs and bloody neck and bitten lips, and Proko wanted to give him  _ everything.  _

Lynch’s cheeks were scarlet— he smelled like dizzying want, even with his mouth drawn into a scowl and his shoulders hunched. K squirmed, uncharacteristically sweet when he reached up to touch his fingers to Lynch’s throat, his mouth, sliding down to tangle in the chain of the crucifix strung in silver around Lynch’s neck, shining against the damp black wifebeater he wore. K used his grip on the chain to tug Lynch down, down, until their mouths were so close together that Proko knew they were sharing breaths. 

“Hoc est infernum,” Lynch muttered. Proko bent his head to K’s chest, sucking a hickey over his heart as he opened up K’s jeans. 

_ Melius regere in infernum quam servire in Caelo, _ Proko thought of replying, but could not form the words because all his mouth wanted to do was  _ this,  _ K arching beneath him, one hand freed from Lynch’s crucifix to tangle in Proko’s hair again. He reigned nowhere, anyway— he was no king, and never had been, and never would be. 

He was an acolyte, a former street rat, a nothing. 

With K beneath him, though, that all seemed to fade away into insignificance. 

_ “Kiss _ me,” K moaned, tossing his head, demanding and bratty. Yasha had never been bratty— had never asked for anything, only taken it with brute force. He’d have torn Proko’s hair out for a kiss, and no mistake. 

Proko snapped his hips into the spread of K’s thighs, ground himself against the trapped curve of the erection he’d given up on freeing from its clothed confines. Lynch was gasping his breaths, trying not to look even though he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He touched where K had reopened the bites with trembling fingers, and K turned his chin fast to catch his hand there, keeping it trapped. 

“You’re jealous, huh?” K goaded, breathless, eyes rolling back. “Wish you were getting it so good, huh?” Proko’s fangs dropped at the smell of blood so strong in the air, so fresh. The sight had Lynch gasping through his nose, half-shocked and half-something else entirely. His pupils were so big his eyes looked black; with his fair skin and handsome features, he could’ve been an angel, crouched there, if not for the eyes. If not for the  _ blood,  _ K’s blood, which had began to run down his wrist over scars that made Proko’s mouth water. 

“Let him do it,” K whispered, the devil on Lynch’s shoulder. “Let him, it feels so good— you know it does, you  _ know—“  _

“O my god—“ Lynch spat out, the beginning of a catechism that Proko had known even as a human, stinking and starving but still sinful in the eyes of the Church; he laughed, and pitched forward, running his nose over the line of Lynch’s throat, scenting him out. The prayer strangled at his Cupid’s bow of a mouth. 

“Do you want it?” Proko breathed— between them, K was gasping over and over, had gotten a hand in his own pants and was jerking off slowly, slowly, his knuckles grazing Proko’s stomach with each pull. 

“Just do it.” Lynch gritted, and turned his head to the side, baring his throat even more. His eyes were clenched shut, his jaw tight. He was all too handsome. 

“Do you  _ want  _ it?” Proko repeated, insistent, even though he was sick with longing for the blood he could  _ see  _ beneath Lynch’s translucently-pale Irish skin. He’d always been a little cruel, himself. 

“Yes, damn you—“ Lynch swore, and Proko sank his teeth in. 

His blood tasted differently than K’s had— where K’s blood had been ruinous, sweet and bright and addictive, Lynch’s was like wine that had been brewed by some master and left to ferment belowground for a thousand years— almost  _ too good,  _ like it was a mortal sin to be tasting it. Presumptuous. It probably was— Lynch was a white-girdled Catholic virgin who went weekly to mass and confessed his sins in all earnesty to a priest for absolution. Proko managed only a few swallows of it before he had to pull away, licking the excess from Lynch’s porcelain flesh in a way that made him shudder. 

He’d come in his pants during the Blooding— the wetness mingled with the damp from the shower, unpleasant except for the sweet pleasure left behind, aftershocks that made his underbelly tremble. K was very nearly asleep from it, eyes half-closed and sprawled out with his cock softening against his stomach, shirt stained from his release. One hand was yet tangled in Lynch’s chain. 

Lynch was hard in his black jeans; he seemed a fallen angel with his neck wound dripping daintily,  _ delicately,  _ two sweet rivulets trailing down to the finely-hewn ledge of his collarbone. K nuzzled his cheek against the bulge in Lynch’s pants, insatiable. 

“Do you want to come?” Proko murmured, stroking his hands up and down K’s stomach and chest, soothing, not taking his eyes off of Lynch.

Someone could not look more conflicted than Lynch did at that moment—  _ anguished,  _ even, torn between the wantings of his body and the horrors of his soul. Stricken. 

It was delicious. 

K pressed a soft kiss to where he’d nuzzled, lips curving up at the very corners, looking like he was about to swindle Lynch out of a fortune in gold, not the  _ prestigious _ honor of sucking his as-yet-chaste cock. 

“No,” Lynch mumbled, and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to meet the tile wall with a  _ clunk. _ He breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose, hard enough to flare his nostrils. He was a martyr carved from marble. 

Proko’s fingers itched with the urge to  _ corrupt.  _

_ “Nyet?”  _ K repeated, humming. He rolled his head upon his neck, grinning lazily up at Proko. Incorrigible. 

“No.” Lynch agreed on a sigh. Long-suffering. 

“He’ll never fuck you like you want,” K observed lightly, as Lynch rose and moved to leave, knees weak. Lynch’s shoulders went taut, defensive. He did not reply, only left, uncaring of covering up the blood on his neck or the way he dripped water from his clothes. 

K and Proko dragged themselves to bed, ramshackle and ragged. The dorm mattress was too narrow to comfortably fit them both; K lay draped like a limpet over Proko’s limbs, holding him down. Proko pressed kisses to his forehead, his hair. Stroked his fingertips gently over K’s skin. Wished naught but to touch him, keep him like this. Close and soft, young and handsome.  _ Forever.  _

_ Would you become like me?  _ he wanted to ask, and did not, not the least because he still, after so very long, did not know how it had been done. How it could be done again. The transformation was shrouded in darkness, in mystery— Proko had not met another like him who was not his maker, and did not know where to find any others who would have the knowledge. Dick and Parrish had no idea; they were as clueless and bumbling as Proko in this way. 

K interrupted his musing, speaking low and serious. “If you ever call me  _ Yasha  _ again, I’ll fucking kill you.” 

Proko did not respond except to nod, and tighten his grip on K. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
